


Mon Conte de Fées

by zimriya



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Enjolras is Julia Stiles again, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Politics, Romantic Comedy, Royalty, The Monaco Monarchy sort of works like this, The Prince and Me AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2017-12-22 03:03:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zimriya/pseuds/zimriya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>This fic is now discontinued.</b>
</p><p>When Grantaire steps out of the palace that morning, there are three ways he can see this going. One, he will get shitfaced, two, Éponine will come grudging peel him off of a barstool, or three, he will be swept off his feet by a beautiful and perfectly normal young man who doesn’t give a shit that Grantaire is the Hereditary Prince of Monaco.</p><p>And to be fair, at least one of those things ends up happening--Grantaire just wasn’t counting on it being the third one. Being forced to go undercover in a foreign country is just a bonus, really.</p><p>Or The Prince and Me, ExR style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Les Habits neufs de l'empereur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is the French for fairytale, from which we get the word in English originally. 
> 
> Betaed by [Michelle](http://forochel.tumblr.com/) and Murf, both of whom are lovely, lovely, people. (Marta looked at it also.) All other mistakes are my own.

**1\. Les Habits neufs de l'empereur**

\--

When Grantaire steps out of a side entrance of the palace that morning, he does so intending to spend most of the day drowning his sorrows. He hasn’t bothered with new clothes -- the silk green button down and black dress shoes and pants are fine, and the designer shades help mask the slight red tinge of his eyes. Grantaire could probably have played it off as another drunken hangover, but something about smiling and posing for pictures has his stomach in knots this morning.

“Where the hell are you going?” says Éponine rather suddenly from behind him, before his thoughts can get any more maudlin. Grantaire should probably thank her, and turns to do so.

There’s a flash of cameras, and his smile slips just a bit more. Éponine catches it, eyes darting around with precision speed, before she smiles beautifully and grabs hold of Grantaire’s arm so that she can tug him close to her side.

“Out,” says Grantaire tightly, fighting her grip a little. “Away from here.” Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight Feuilly grabbing hold of Bahorel’s arm to prevent him from rushing to stand in front of the two of them. “Away from _them_.”

Éponine catches the emphasis and looks where Grantaire is looking, eyes glancing over their bodyguards. Montparnasse is nowhere in sight, but Grantaire would not put it past the man to be somewhere on the roof. He has a tendency to do things like that, when he’s not complaining about how black really isn’t his color, and how Éponine needed to spend more time doing things during the day.

“Right,” Éponine says. And then, tightening her fingers into a vice and hauling him along, “Walk.”

She gets him out of the public eye and into an alleyway where Grantaire knows she parked her car, before he can finish digesting the outfit she’s wearing. She’s wearing jeans and a loose-fitting long-sleeved shirt, but the expensive deep red scarf sort of ruins the effect. On her feet is a pair of impossibly high heeled boots; Grantaire’s not sure how she even managed to catch him in those.

“Is that what they train you for in Princess school?” he says, because he cannot help himself. “How to run in heels and also how to run a country?”

“I don’t know, you tell me,” says Éponine, but her eyes still betray her concern for him. She stops them outside the car. “Grantaire, are you okay?”

“Absolutely fine,” says Grantaire. “I’m likely to end up ascending the throne soon, though, since I’m going to kill my father.” Which would probably be more of a hassle than anything else, since the last thing Grantaire would like to do is rule a country that won’t even call him ‘king.’ He gets that it’s a principality, he really does, but unlike his father, Grantaire would actually like to be able to walk into a room filled with foreign nationals who _wouldn’t_ automatically assume he was ten years old.

Éponine strokes a few of his stray curls out of his eyes. “Oh, sweetie,” she says. “It’s nice that you think so, but you really won’t. If you kill him, I’ll kill you and Courfeyrac so I end up Princess.”

Grantaire pulls his hair away from her fingers. “Why don’t you just say Queen?” he says. “In fact, why don’t we just call it King? It has such a ring to it, don’t you think? Queen Éponine?”

Éponine rolls her eyes at him. “Haha,” she says. “Very funny.”

“It won’t be funny when I commit patricide and you commit...cousincide -- Ow, Éponine!”

“I cannot believe you just said that,” says Éponine. “And it’s regicide, you dork. For both of us.”

Grantaire narrows his eyes at her. “I’m pretty sure there are ceremonies,” he says. “It’s not instantaneous inheritance. I’m not going to get a stripper jumping out of a cake shouting, ‘congratulations on your princeship.’”

“No,” says Éponine, thoughtfully. “But I’m glad you’ve shared this with me -- I can work with this.”

“What?” says Grantaire. He rolls his eyes and takes the keys without her having to ask when they reach the car.

“Your birthday,” clarifies Éponine, getting into the car. “I was going to get you some fancy art supplies, but if you want strippers in cakes I can do strippers in cakes.”

“Male strippers?” says Grantaire somewhat grudgingly, as he gets into the driver’s side. The key goes into the ignition and the car gives a hum. Grantaire has to admit that Éponine has fabulous taste in cars. “You’re promising me male strippers? And cakes?”

“Whatever you want,” says Éponine.

“I suppose it’s fine unless I want to marry them.”

Éponine sighs and pats him on the shoulder. “Your father loves you,” she says. “I’m sure all he’d take issue with would be the fact that your new fiancé was a stripper.” She doesn’t mention that their government wouldn’t see it that way, and he doesn’t either.

Instead, Grantaire rolls his eyes, but pulls away from the curb anyway. “This is why I keep you around,” he says.

“Right,” agrees Éponine. “It has nothing to do with the fact that I’m third in line for the throne.

“Nope,” says Grantaire.

“Or the fact that Courfeyrac is second.”

Grantaire pauses. “That might have a bit to do with it,” he admits, eventually. “But only because Monaco wouldn’t be able to handle the amount of glitter that Courfeyrac would demand if he were Prince. Think of what he’d do to the Palace, Éponine.”

Éponine appears to think about it, and ends up shuddering. “That’s a horrible mental image,” she says. “I already have enough terrible memories of stumbling home wasted to that thing glowing up the place.”

Grantaire nods seriously and turns to look at her. “Yes,” he says. “It’s like a terrible pink nightmare of bright light and terrible decor.”

Éponine yelps at him and takes hold of his chin to physically turn his face forward. “You’re going to kill us both!” she cries, laughing. “And then Courfeyrac will be King and the world will never recover.”

Grantaire laughs with her. “France will never let us live it down,” he agrees. “They’ll have to change the name from Monaco to Glitterco.”

“You guys know I can hear you, right?” says Courfeyrac very suddenly, from behind them in the car, and both of them shriek.

Éponine is the first to recover. “Pull over,” she says loudly, and Grantaire does so, heart pounding. Éponine is up and out of the car almost immediately, but Grantaire ends up sitting somewhat awkwardly in the driver’s seat, heartbeat normalizing, as Courfeyrac attempts to flee Éponine’s wrath by worming his way into the front seat.

“Grantaire!” he cries. “Grantaire, save me!”

“I don’t know you,” Grantaire says. “I don’t know you -- this isn’t even my car --”

Éponine manages to get a solid grip on Courfeyrac’s legs and yank, and they both go sprawling onto the sidewalk. “I’m sorry!” Courfeyrac is protesting, even as Éponine gets to her feet with a truly terrifying grin on her face. “I’m sorry -- I saw you chase R out of through the mirror gallery -- which is terribly confusing, by the way, I felt like I was in some sort of funhouse -- and I used my key to get into the car -- I’m sorry -- Éponine!”

“I thought you said you lost your key,” says Éponine. “And it’s my car.”

“Technically it’s both of ours --!” Courfeyrac tries to protest, before Éponine tackles him.

“-- I’m moving away,” Grantaire continues, watching them in the rearview mirror to make sure he doesn’t end short _two_ cousins because one of them dies and the other goes to jail for killing them. “I’m moving, far, far away and finding myself a nice dentist surgeon and forgetting this entire damn country!” He says the last bit a bit louder than necessary and out the window, and probably that will be in the news, but he doesn’t care.

“Dentists have the highest suicide rates, actually,” Courfeyrac points out, sounding far too bright for someone currently fighting to keep breathing; Grantaire really should make a point of finding out just who taught Éponine to fight dirty so that he can thank them.  “I wouldn’t marry one if I were you.”

Grantaire grits his teeth and resists the urge to make all sorts of biting remarks about how Courfeyrac could get married if he wanted, but it must show in his face because Éponine lets Courfeyrac go abruptly.

“Grantaire,” she says, and Grantaire floors it.

So really, it’s entirely his fault that his face gets spread all over the tabloids the next day. At the very least, it’s not for threatening to go off and marry dentists. No; it is instead for art races. Which -- Grantaire didn’t even know there were such things as art races; Grantaire didn’t even know that you _could_ race art. He’s still not quite sure how you race art -- he supposes, actually, that’s it’s more like some sort of terrifying painting contest with a timer and a winner.

And to be fair, he hadn’t planned on Courfeyrac apparently _living_ in Éponine’s car and having to pull over to the side of the road for her to beat him; nor had he planned on stumbling upon what was apparently some sort of art racing...thing. He hadn’t even known there was such thing as art racing, let alone that it was popular enough to be filmed, and he most certainly had not intended to enter into a race with a very attractive young man with a remarkable talent for finger painting. The kissing thing, though, had probably been more than a little bit planned.

“I was angry,” says Grantaire in French, mostly to draw attention away from the newsfeed of the kiss. “The government told me I couldn’t get married. I was within my rights.”

Grantaire’s father looks somewhat torn between beating him over the head and disowning him. He can’t disown him, because then Éponine would end up killing Courfeyrac, and end up Princess. Even Grantaire’s father admits that that would not be a good idea -- not to mention the general mess of succession through murder. Grantaire thinks that would be a fabulous idea -- Éponine is remarkably innovative, tough as nails, and lived for a good few months with the side of the family Grantaire’s father refuses to speak of. Éponine would make a fabulous Princess; Grantaire, decidedly, would not. He doesn’t have the figure for the clothes, to begin with. And even if he does end up Prince, he’s pretty sure he’s going to be terrible at it. (There is, after all, the fact that Grantaire’s mother had decided that his first language should be English. That he can’t get married in his own bleeding country is something of a bonus.)

“Are you listening to a word I’m saying?” says Grantaire’s father.

Grantaire considers lying. “No,” he says finally. “But that’s only because I love you, Father, and I know you’ll get to the point eventually -- usually that’s at the end.”

For a second, Grantaire thinks his father is actually going to hit him, but instead the man just sighs.

“I do not know what to do with you,” he says.

“Send me away,” says Grantaire, as something of a joke. “Send me far away where you never have to think about me again.”

“Grantaire,” says his father, standing a little taller and sighing.

“We can be even more of a Hallmark movie,” continues Grantaire, heading him off the pass by switching languages just to watch his father’s eyebrows furrow. “Pack me off to learn humility in a country where no one knows my name.” He’s not completely joking, but he’s also not expecting his father to lift his head out of his hands, and to nod.

“Yes,” says his father. “I’m sending you to America.”

\--

Éponine does not stop laughing at him for five minutes. Grantaire knows it’s five minutes, because within those five minutes, he’s managed to call Courfeyrac and drink a glass of wine. His phone has the time on it, and he spends a few hours sighing dramatically at it. It’s a bottle of one of his father’s finest, and the bottle says Château Talbot. He’s pretty sure his father is going to kill him, but the stuff is rich with just a hint of fruit to it, and Grantaire is glad he’s Hereditary Prince and allowed to drink things like a Château Talbot in a parlor while his cousin laughs at him.

“So we’re going to America,” says Éponine finally. “That’ll be fun.”

Grantaire narrows his eyes around his glass. “What do you mean we?” he says eventually.

Éponine steals the bottle and pours herself her own drink. “Exactly what you think,” she says, getting to her feet and fetching a third glass.

Grantaire keeps narrowing his eye at her if only so that he doesn’t have to look up and see Courfeyrac’s arrival.

“Nobody panic,” his cousin says. “I have everything under control.”

Éponine hands him the glass. “No one was panicking, Courfeyrac,” she says. “In fact we were discussing our flight to America.”

“Ah,” says Courfeyrac. “Can I have the window seat, ‘Ponine, you know how I like to look at the clouds.”

Éponine looks at Courfeyrac for a long moment, before coming forward to take both of Grantaire’s hands in her own. She snags his glass in the move, hands it to Courfeyrac (who downs it) and licks her lips.

“Grantaire,” she says. “Promise me that whatever you do, you will not die and let that idiot become King.”

“Prince,” says Courfeyrac, from his place in one of the large armchairs. “I’d be Prince.”

“Whatever.” Éponine rolls her eyes. “The point is we do not want you running the country.”

“I resent that,” says Courfeyrac. “I would be a fabulous Prince.”

Grantaire meets Éponine’s eyes gravely. “I promise that if I am ever in a situation where death is the only answer, I’ll take him with me.”

“Fabulous,” says Éponine. “I’ll drink to that.”

“Hey!” protests Courfeyrac. “It’s not like I’m older than you two, anyway. You don’t need to kill me to ascend the throne. ”

Éponine swallows her sip. “You’re male,” she says, pragmatically. “Of course I’d need to kill you.”

Grantaire swallows his own mouthful. “Mhmm,” he says. “She has a point -- my father is very old fashioned.”

“He is not,” says Courfeyrac. “I’m sure he’d be fine with ‘Ponine as Princess.”

“’Ponine would be fine with ‘Ponine as Princess,” says Éponine. She settles onto one of the arms of Courfeyrac’s chair and holds her glass like they’ve been taught to; fingers just loose enough to look thoughtless and legs crossed. “The entire country would be fine with ‘Ponine as Princess, because unlike you asshats, I actually get work done.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Please,” he says. “You’ve still got a crush on that American exchange student from last year.”

“Shut up,” says Éponine. “And his name is Marius, thank you.”

“But it is a crush,” says Courfeyrac. “You’re not denying that.”

Grantaire considers getting up to give him a high five.

“No,” says Éponine. “He has a girlfriend.”

Which is true -- one of the reasons there couldn’t be a future Prince Marius was that he had fallen completely and utterly in love with the Minister of State Jean Valjean’s adopted daughter, Cosette Fauchelevent. This sucked, because since Éponine had pretty much been head-over heels from the moment he’d come stumbling into the palace like a colt on new legs, trailing after Cosette.

Courfeyrac makes a pitying sound. “Too bad,” he says. “Prince Marius had a nice ring to it.”

“Yes, well.” Éponine holds out a hand for more wine and Grantaire hands it over willingly. “So does Princess Éponine.”

There’s a beat.

“You’re saying you just want to rule alone, right?” says Courfeyrac, finally. “You’ve not been hiding a clone of yourself that you’re planning on marrying, right?”

“She can’t,” points out Grantaire, quickly, before Éponine can ruin their peace by insulting Courfeyrac. Again. “That was my problem.”

“Right,” says Courfeyrac. “Right -- you got caught making out with that guy.”

“Yes,” says Grantaire, tightly. “That guy.”

“Did the guy have a name?” says Éponine. “That you caught, I mean -- I’m sure his parents were kind enough to name him.”

“I didn’t really ask,” says Grantaire. “Be it that I was racing him at painting.”

“Yeah,” says Courfeyrac. “What the fuck is art racing?”

Éponine hands the wine over to Courfeyrac, who sips, and Grantaire, who pours. All is quiet for a moment.

“I have no idea,” says Grantaire finally. “But it looked fun at the time.”

Courfeyrac sips again. “That it did,” he says. “Did you really have to make out with the guy, though?”

Grantaire narrows his eyes at him. “This coming from the man who’s done more walks of shame than I have fingers and toes --”

Courfeyrac points at Grantaire with the bottle of wine. “Hey!” he protests. “I resent that! I never do the walk of shame. I walk with purpose and pride. Like a man with the claim to the throne.”

“More like a man who just made sure that someone else has a claim to the throne,” says Éponine, dryly.

Grantaire meets Courfeyrac’s eyes, and helps him dump her off of his armrest and onto the floor.

“Mean,” Grantaire tells her. “Courfeyrac is the master of safe sex.”

“It’s true,” says Courfeyrac, pleasantly. “I am.”

Éponine flips both of them off, and Grantaire goes to open his mouth to rib her for the unladylike display, but Bahorel’s voice cuts through their mirth.

“Lady-like as always, Éponine,” he says. “Perhaps you ought to be joining R on his extended leave?”

Éponine’s spine snaps straight and she throws her head up. “Fine with me,” she says, grinning widely. “I assume you’ll be coming with?”

Bahorel rolls his eyes right back at her, until Feuilly pokes his head in to glare at them.

“The Prince,” he says, sounding tired. “Has decided that the two of you are to accompany Grantaire on his extended journey overseas, as a lesson in humility.” He sighs. “He thinks it will be good for you to spend a few months in a place where no one knows who you are.”

“Some people will know who we are,” says Courfeyrac. “I keep making out with models and as rumor has it, Grantaire can’t keep it in his pants.”

“I can too,” says Grantaire. “All of those rumors were exactly that -- _rumors_.”

“Also, when have you been making out with models?” says Éponine. “I thought you were done with that.”

“Certain models can be very convincing,” says Courfeyrac.

“Right,” says Éponine. “So in other words, Bastien’s father is away and you have their beach house to yourself.”

“Ah,” says Grantaire.

Courfeyrac ignores both of them, and turns back to Feuilly and Bahorel. “When do we leave?” he says.

“In two days,” says Bahorel. “You should pack.” He leaves them in the parlor with Feuilly at his side, the two of the bickering quietly, and the door rocks back a few times on its hinges before sliding shut.

Grantaire is left staring after him a bit blankly. “The school term in America hasn’t started already, has it?” he asks Eponine.

She remains silent.

“Courfeyrac?”

He leans down to pat him on the back. “Should have thought about these things when you agreed to be shipped off to a foreign country,” he says.

“I was joking!” Grantaire protests, half-heartedly, as both of his cousins leave him in search of their own rooms.

\--

The first thing Grantaire notices when he wakes up the next morning is that he’s not in his bed. This would be worrying to him, if not for the fact that this isn’t the first time he’s woken up in foreign beds. What does end up worrying him, is that he appears to be in transit.

“This is new,” he says, into the open air. It only takes a few blinks of his eyes before Bahorel’s smiling face swims into view.

“Good morning, Princess,” says Bahorel, as per usual. “Sleep well?”

“I hate you,” says Grantaire. He cranes his head around so that he can look over at Feuilly, who appears to be holding his feet. “You too.”

The other man smiles, and pats one of Grantaire’s ankles. “I’m going to say that’s a no, then,” he answers Bahorel, brightly. “I keep telling you, Ép’s been sneaking peas into his bed.”

“Haha,” says Grantaire. “You’re hilarious. You should give up body guarding in favor of comedy routines.”

Feuilly tightens his grip on Grantaire’s calves and keeps walking.

“But, anyway,” Grantaire continues, as if he isn’t being carried through the back halls of the palace, “where are we going?”

“Debriefing,” says Bahorel, when Feuilly remains silent. “Your father’s orders.”

“Debriefing,” repeats Grantaire. “Okay. But is there a reason I have to be in my pajamas for it?”

“No,” says Bahorel.

“Yes,” says Feuilly.

“Right,” says Grantaire. “Can you put me down, at least?”

“No,” says Bahorel.

“Yes,” says Feuilly, and he drops Grantaire’s feet.

So Grantaire isn’t carried into his ‘Journey to America’ Debriefing -- he’s dragged, under the arms, by Bahorel, while Feuilly laughs and records him on his phone.

“This is not okay,” Grantaire says, loudly, as Éponine and Courfeyrac look up from where they’re seated at a conference table. Courfeyrac has a laptop in front of him, and a look on his face that suggests he’s reading gossip on them again. Grantaire ignores him with as much dignity as he can manage. “As Hereditary Prince I command you to delete that footage now.”

“Footage?” says Éponine. “What footage?” She gets up, and Montparnasse shoots her a sharp look, which she ignores. “Show me the footage.”

Feuilly goes to hand her the phone, and Grantaire bats it out of his hands onto the floor. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” he says, somewhat desperately.

“Yes, actually,” says Bahorel, bending down to pick up the phone and pocketing it. “And that’s right here.”

Grantaire would strangle him, if he didn’t know that Bahorel could have him on the ground in five seconds flat. They grew up together, wrestling and fighting and cursing the world, while Grantaire was running between England and Monaco learning to be a real boy. They’re older now, but not much has changed; Bahorel still calls him Pinocchio sometimes, and Grantaire makes a point of not starting fist fights.

“Right,” says Grantaire, like he hasn’t just spent a few minutes spacing out. “Of course, debriefing.”

“Debriefing,” agrees Bahorel. “Shall we start?”

Courfeyrac opens his mouth, suddenly gleeful, and the entire room turns to glare at him.

“Never mind,” he says. “Carry on.”

“I don’t know whether to proud of you or to smack you,” says Éponine.

“I vote for the first one,” says Grantaire. “I myself am very proud of Courfeyrac’s apparent maturity.”

“It’s not maturity,” grumbles Courfeyrac. “It’s fear.”

Grantaire thinks about that for a moment. “Wait a second,” he says. “Have they been grooming you to be Prince?”

“No,” says Courfeyrac. “Why would they do that -- you’re next in line. That’d be redundant.”

Grantaire isn’t buying it. “Yeah, well, they gave up on grooming me ages ago,” he says. “Mostly that was because Feuilly got tired of me dying his hair --”

The man in question shoots him a sharp glare.

“-- But still.”

“We prefer to think of it is as being safe,” says Montparnasse. “And seeing as how you seem to have a tendency to run off --”

“My government told me I couldn’t get married,” says Grantaire, sharply. “I think running off was justified.”

The room is suddenly quiet, and for a moment, Grantaire is worried not even Éponine is going to break the silence. But then she does: “Anyway, you had something to tell us.”

“Yes,” says Feuilly, and then he pulls out an honest to god thumb drive and drags the laptop away from Courfeyrac. He has an honest to god powerpoint.

“One,” says Bahorel. “Under no circumstances are you ever to do any of these things.”

He has a whole list of things that Grantaire is pretty sure are illegal even in Europe, as well as a few things Grantaire grudgingly has to admit he has done before. There are three more slides of things not to do, one of which features a picture that has even Courfeyrac looking puzzled, and Montparnasse twitching like he wants to cover Éponine’s eyes.

“Now,” says Feuilly, several moments later when Grantaire is finished blushing his way through a frankly embarrassing lecture on why it is not okay for him to sleep with anyone while abroad. “Here are some things that Hollywood has taught you happen in America.”

He slaps up a slide filled with hilarious screencaps from multiple iconic movies, and Courfeyrac makes a face. “You’re ruining the magic of my childhood,” he tells Feuilly, seriously. “If you weren’t capable of knocking me out with your pinky, I’d have to kill you.”

Feuilly rolls his eyes. “Shut up and look at the slideshow, Courfeyrac,” he says.

“Anyway,” says Montparnasse, interrupting all of them with a sharp look. “None of this is actually true.”

The first slide says, in incredibly helpful rainbow letters, ‘most students do not have cars.’

“There goes any chances of you taking your Grandfather’s pride-and-joys overseas,” says Courfeyrac, grinning. “Oh wait -- you used those things for anything _but_ driving.”

“I don’t think you should say anything but driving,” says Éponine. “That implies that he did anything other than fuck in them.”

“Hey!” says Grantaire, mock outraged. “I’ll have you know I got the idea from you!”

“What?” says Montparnasse, sounding strangled.

“Next slide!” says Courfeyrac, somewhat desperately, and Bahorel puts another super saturated picture onto the screen.

For a moment, neither of them speak.

“Is that a cartoon?” Éponine says finally, and it’s like breaking a dam.

“What do you mean cow tipping is a lie?” says Courfeyrac, sounding aghast, at the same time Grantaire adds, dramatically, “What’s next -- are you going to tell me that there aren’t actually five thousand different Santas who live in malls?”

“Shut up,” says Éponine

“Or this one,” says Feuilly, ignoring all of them with his usual sigh.

“Especially this one,” adds Bahorel.

“Nothing about this one is real in the slightest,” finishes Montparnasse.

Grantaire blinks up at the screen. “Is that High School Musical?” he says, finally, staring somewhat speechlessly up at Zac Efron’s over dramatic face.

“Yes,” says Bahorel. “And I swear to god, R, if you start singing I will leave your sorry ass there. I will take Little Miss Queen Bee and the world will be better for it.”

“Hey,” protests Courfeyrac. “Take me as well.”

Bahorel ignores him, until Grantaire lifts both of his hands.

“I’m not going to sing,” he protest. “Why the fuck would I sing?”

Bahorel continues to stare at him.

“You really don’t remember your twenty-first,” says Feuilly, sighing.

“What?” says Grantaire.

“Anyway,” says Montparnasse, again. His eye is twitching again, and Grantaire has to work very hard not to think about that time he and Éponine spent an entire evening making fun of their various keepers. Montparnasse’s eye-twitch was something of a speciality for Éponine, be it that she’s been on the receiving end of it more than any of them.

“The point is we don’t want to call attention to ourselves,” says Bahorel. “Which is why we’re going to be sending you to this school.”

The slide after the lists shows a picture of the school, which is picturesque, and features many smiling children. Grantaire blinks up at at it.  “Okay?” he says.

“Valjean’s daughter goes there,” continues Feuilly. “So we figure it’s perfect.”

“Cosette,” repeats Éponine. “Cosette goes there?”

“Yes?”

Éponine’s lips pull together. “Right,” she says. “Right -- that’s great.”

Grantaire feels a little bad for her, but she shrugs off any and all attempts of comfort.

“Is that fine?” says Montparnasse, narrowing his eyes at Éponine.

“It’s more than fine,” says Grantaire quickly, to save her. “I love Cosette like the little sister I never had.”

This is true, because Cosette understood what it was like to be the child of someone with far more power than the world ever needed to give them. At the very least, Cosette was willing to help him with his French, and she seemed to understand that she was lucky to be able to do whatever she wanted and not just follow in her father’s footsteps.

“God, Cosette as a sister,” says Courfeyrac. “That’s terrifying.”

“Very much so,” adds Éponine, recovering.

“Right,” says Montparnasse, almost hesitantly. “Well, I’ll leave you with these brochures, then.” He passes them out, and turns to head for the room. “You’re all packed, yes?”

“Yes,” says Éponine sighing. “Really, ‘Parnasse, it’s not like we’re going out into the wilderness. It’s just America.”

“And that is exactly the type of attitude that will get you killed, Miss Thénardier,” says the head of Palace security, Javert, from the doorway.

Grantaire sighs, and resigns himself to more powerpoints.

\--

Grantaire spends most of the plane ride sleeping, until Éponine wakes him by slapping the pamphlets from earlier down on top of the table. He jumps, going from sleeping to waking in far less time than he’d like, and gazes up at her blearily.

Courfeyrac’s face swims into view from across him, an odd sort of smile twisting about his lips, and Grantaire realizes that here’s something on top of his head.

“Oh, very funny,” he says. “Please tell me it’s not a crown.”

Courfeyrac just grins harder. “I’m preparing you,” he says. “One day you’re going to lose that lovely head of hair of yours and all you will have left is your crown. You need to be ready.”

Grantaire glares at him, and reaches up to inspect the latest version atop his head.

It’s a tiara.

Grantaire wonders if he could leap to his death from the plane. “Right,” he says. “Thanks for this as well.” He pulls the surprisingly heavy thing off of his head.

“You’re welcome,” says Courfeyrac, graciously. “We took lots of pictures, don’t worry.”

“Mm,” says Éponine. “Princesstaire might be trending.”

Grantaire stops inspecting the gems set into the crown to stare at her with faint horror. “What?” he gets out, voice cracking.

Éponine grins. “Kidding,” she says. “You’re not nearly popular enough to trend.”

Grantaire turns his attention back to the crown. “You’re just jealous that I look better in this than you do,” he says.

There’s a pause.

“Oi,” says Courfeyrac. “What makes you think that’s Éponine’s?”

Grantaire doesn’t answer that, and instead sets the tiara down on the table next to the pamphlets. “Can’t you just tell me what they say?” he tries, hopefully.

Éponine just raises both of her hands. “You’re the one who decided to make out with the first guy you found with vague artistic talent.”

“He had more than vague artistic talent,” Grantaire protests. “And that’s not even on the list of things I look for in a guy.” Which is somewhat true, he supposes. Not that Grantaire’s ever really looked for anyone long term -- mostly because of the whole prince thing and also kind of the fact that he generally ends up fucking and running -- but the points still stands.

“Right,” says Éponine, probably seeing right through him.

“And besides, technically it’s not my fault that you’re here with me --”

Éponine silences him with a look.

“Okay, fine.” He folds himself more firmly into the seat and picks up the pamphlets. “But if you think for a moment I’m thanking you --”

Éponine smacks him atop the head, but she’s grinning. “Read,” she says, and then turns to Courfeyrac. “I know for a fact that neither of you bothered to do so last night.” Then she curtsies, eyelashes fluttering, and says, “Your Royal Highness.”

Grantaire takes one of the pamphlets and throws it at her. “Shut it,” he says, eyes darting across the pages.

\--

Grantaire had thought, initially, that he would be rooming with Éponine and Courfeyrac in some sort of apartment style suite, but as it turns out, even being the Hereditary Prince of a foreign country isn’t enough to get you preferential treatment. Bahorel had gotten off the phone with a less than amused expression on his face and the information that while the school in question is happy to be hosting the Hereditary Prince of Monaco (Grantaire had made a terrible face when he dropped that line), they could not allow him to room with a woman.

He doesn’t get around to explaining it to them until they’re on the plane, after a few tense minutes spent taking off.

“Wait,” says Courfeyrac, when Bahorel finishes speaking. “Does this mean we’ll be rooming together?”

He points over at Grantaire with a thumb, and Grantaire sticks his tongue back at him. “You say that like it’s a hardship,” he says. “I’m the perfect roommate.”

Courfeyrac snorts. “Right,” he says.

“Perfect roommate in a palace with more rooms than healthy,” says Éponine. “You do realize the pictures probably don’t even do it justice.”

Grantaire blinks. “Isn’t that a good thing, usually?”

Éponine stares at him blankly.

“She means they’re probably tiny,” says Courfeyrac. “And I think you have to share a bathroom.”

Grantaire shrugs. “Could be worse,” he says. “I have a lovely bathroom physique.”

Éponine makes a choked noise and Courfeyrac reaches around to pat her on the back. “There, there,” he says. “You have to admit it’s true, though. His bathroom physique is pretty lovely.”

Grantaire nods at her. “I wouldn’t lie.”

“Right.” Éponine rolls her eyes. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

“Exactly,” agrees Courfeyrac. “I knew you understood the shower thing.”

Éponine looks like she’s going to smack both of them, so Grantaire very quickly changes the subject. “So will I be rooming with Courfeyrac?”

“Maybe,” says Bahorel.

“Yes,” says Feuilly, poking his head back from where he’s been whispering with Javert. “And we had to pull quite a few strings to get it to be this way, so the three of you had better behave.”

“What are you talking about?” says Grantaire, smiling sweetly back at his bodyguards. “We’re the very picture of innocence.”

“If for some reason you looked up innocence in the dictionary, this is what you’d see,” adds Courfeyrac. He takes hold of Éponine’s shoulders and tugs her in to look up at them. “Smile,” he says through his teeth.

Grantaire blinks up at Feuilly and Bahorel through his lashes, and smiles like he’s in a dentist commercial. Which only serves to remind him of Courfeyrac’s earlier commentary, and of the art race that started it all, and so he spends the rest of the plane ride laughing hysterically and staring vacantly out the window.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> ~~Also, there might be a family tree for the House of Grimaldi (aka the ruling family of Monaco) that I made somewhat desperately.~~


	2. La Princesse au petit pois

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by the lovely Michelle and Murf, as always. All other mistakes are my own. Sorry this took so long--I’ve been writing giveaway fics.

**2\. La Princesse au petit pois**

\--

Grantaire’s roommate is, for lack of a better word, absent. Well, no; Grantaire’s roommate is Courfeyrac, but as soon as his cousin sees the room, he vanishes off in search of something far more interesting to do. Grantaire’s fine with that -- he’d much rather have the room to himself while he unpacks his wardrobe and makes his bed, but then he starts to feel a little claustrophobic alone in the room, and ends several floors up outside Éponine’s dorm.

“It’s because Courfeyrac will laugh at me,” Grantaire tells her, when she opens the door. She’s currently laughing at him and it has less oomph, but the point still stands. “Not because I like you best.”

Éponine very abruptly stops laughing. “But do you like me best?” she asks, which is when her own roommate, Minister Valjean’s daughter, appears.

Cosette wanders past carrying an armful of clothes, which she throws onto what Grantaire assumes is her bed with a sour noise. “Yes?” he says, still staring at Cosette.

“Say hi to Cosette,” says Éponine, pulling the door open. “You should come inside and play nice, and maybe next time the tabloids will talk about how the two of you are getting married.”

“You’re just angry because that one magazine printed that you were marrying Courfeyrac,” says Grantaire, but he comes inside anyway. “Hey, Cosette.”

Cosette raises a hand in greeting. “Hello, Grantaire,” she says. “Do you think these match?”

Éponine shrugs, but Grantaire shakes his head. “Nah,” he says. “That one’s a shade too blue for the other.”

Cosette blinks. “Thanks,” she says.

“You remember Grantaire’s unfortunate habit with graffiti art,” says Éponine, to be helpful. “And also interrupting entire conversations so that he can paint the people lecturing him.”

“Hey,” interjects Grantaire.

“He also moonlights as something of an artist,” continues Éponine, unperturbed. “When he’s not bemoaning his extremely good fortune, that is.”

“There is nothing fortunate about being born into a life of luxury,” Grantaire snaps back, and Éponine goes quiet.

“Mmm,” says Cosette, before the silence can get uncomfortable. “You sound an awful lot like Enjolras.”

“Enjolras,” repeats Grantaire. He shoots Éponine a look, trying to figure out if he should know who this Enjolras person is, but she looks equally confused.

Cosette doesn’t appear to be all that bothered by their lack of knowledge. “You’ll know who he is,” she says. “Everyone on campus knows who he is.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Cosette nods. “These two?” She holds up two socks, slightly mismatched in color.

Grantaire sighs, and goes over to help her match them. “Why do you have so many, anyway?” he says.

“Oh, these aren’t mine,” says Cosette. “These are Marius’s. He forgot to bring coins for laundry, so I did a load of his stuff with mine.”

Grantaire shoots Éponine a look, and his cousin refuses to meet his eyes. “Marius,” he says. “Marius is here?”

It’s Éponine’s turn to glare at Grantaire, but he remains strong in the phase of her stare.

“Yes?” says Cosette. “You’ll probably see him around -- he works in the library.”

“Ah.”

“Anyway,” says Éponine. “If you’re quite finished with your crisis, I’ll walk you back to your room.”

“But Éponine!” Grantaire protests, even as he lets her haul him to his feet and out of the door. “There’s nothing for me to do in that room.”

“Haha,” says Éponine. “Go bother Courfeyrac, then.”

“He’ll laugh at me!” Grantaire reiterates.

“I laughed at you,” says Éponine, and closes the door to her and Cosette’s room.

Instantly, Grantaire whirls to drag her down the hall. “You didn’t tell me Marius was at this school,” he hisses, under his breath. He’s feeling somewhat betrayed, actually. “I trusted you.”

Éponine rolls her eyes. “I didn’t know,” she says, ignoring the odd looks they’re getting. “We’re not exactly pen pals.”

Grantaire lets her go and lets her start steering him down towards his own floor. “No, of course not,” he says, slowly. “Just -- bad luck, yeah?”

Éponine pinches him hard until he pulls out his key and leads her obligingly to his own door. “The worst,” she says.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” says Grantaire, grinning. “You’re all friends, yeah.”

Éponine sighs. “Yeah, yeah,” she says. “Cosette and I had it out first thing when I got in.”

“Ah,” says Grantaire, and goes to unlock his room. He doesn’t manage to, because another student comes rushing by carrying a large suitcase, and nearly knocks him over.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, before stopping to peer over the suitcase at them both.

“Do you need some help?” says Éponine.

“No, that’s fine,” says the guy, but when Grantaire and Éponine take hold of the suitcase to help him with it, he sighs. “Oh, alright, um. My room is this way.” He leads the way down the hall to the last room on the right, where he knocks on the door. It swings open without pause to reveal another student, who reaches out to help them with the suitcase on automatic.

“Thank you,” says the guy from before, catching Grantaire’s attention instantly. He’s blond, blue-eyed, and tall enough that Grantaire’s throat goes sort of dry.

“You’re welcome?” he manages, voice cracking, and smiles somewhat desperately before reaching out to tug Éponine down the hall. She hauls him back the way they came almost as soon as the door has closed, a smug look on her face

“You were saying?” she says.

“Shut up,” says Grantaire, eyes falling onto the gold plaque on the door that proclaims the guy to be the Resident Assistant, and also named Enjolras.

“Does that,” Éponine tries to say.

“Yes,” says Grantaire, because it really cannot get any worse than this, apparently, “now hide me in your room.”

Éponine purses her lips. “Learning experience,” she reiterates. “New forms of social interaction, um. Please, for the love of god, do not get caught in the metaphorical closet with him.”

“I’m pretty sure the entire problem is that I wouldn’t be in the closet if I got caught with him,” says Grantaire, and ducks when she hits him. “But yes -- I promise not to fuck the guy down the hall.”

“I really can’t believe you had to say that,” says Éponine. “But good.”

\--

“Oh god, I want to fuck the guy down the hall,” says Grantaire, several hours later, when Courfeyrac finally wanders back into their shared room.

His cousin takes one look at him, and sighs. “Grantaire,” he says. “What have we said about over-sharing?”

“Not to do it,” says Grantaire. “But you don’t understand -- I’m having a crisis.”

Courfeyrac heads over to his side of the room and starts unpacking his own suitcase. “Yes,” he says. “But you’re also over-sharing about your crisis.”

Grantaire doesn’t think that’s quite fair -- there are plenty ways for him to over-share how he wants to fuck the guy down the hall (Enjolras, his brain points out, helpfully), and he’d like to think he’s doing Courfeyrac a favor by not sharing them. He’s not over-sharing, honest. For starters, he’s managed to go the entire conversation without mentioning Enjolras’ ridiculously pretty hair.

“He has really fuckable hair,” says Grantaire, because for some reason, his brain doesn’t seem to get the phrase quit while you’re ahead. “I mean -- shit --”

Courfeyrac reaches out and pets Grantaire’s hair. Grantaire’s hair is not nearly as fuckable as Enjolras’. Grantaire thinks he should maybe ask Enjolras how he gets it to be that fluffy -- it can’t just be _product_ ; there have to be _demons_ involved. Also, he should probably stop talking.

“Yes,” says Courfeyrac. “Yes, you really should -- this is why we had to have a conversation about over-sharing.”

Grantaire’s phone beeps. “Feuilly says we had to have a conversation about over-sharing because people kept breaking your heart and there wasn’t enough brain bleach in the world,” says Grantaire.

Courfeyrac is silent for a moment. “It says a lot about us that this is not the creepiest thing you’ve ever done,” he says finally. “Also, hello. Would you like to come help me fold my clothes?”

This time, it’s Courfeyrac’s phone that beeps, and Grantaire looks on curiously as Courfeyrac unlocks it. “‘I’m not your maid,’” he reads. “‘Though I would look fabulous in the costume, I have to say.’”

“Over-sharing!” cries Grantaire, because he agrees with Feuilly’s earlier statement -- there really isn’t enough brain bleach in the world. Bahorel in drag isn’t the stuff of nightmares, but Grantaire grew up with the guy as his best friend who was also in charge of tackling guys who want in his pants or the crown. He has absolutely no time for sexual fantasies. Not that he’s entertaining sexual fantasies about Bahorel in a maid costume. In fact -- “You now owe me two rounds of drinks for the mental image of Bahorel in a maid costume,” he tells Courfeyrac.

“Hey!” protests Courfeyrac. “I am as scarred as you are -- and I’m not the one who said it!”

“You’re the one who read it, though,” points out Grantaire. “You should have suffered in silence, Courfeyrac. This is why I keep you around -- to taste all of my drinks and to suffer in silence!”

Courfeyrac flips him off. “You’re a bastard, R,” he says.

There’s a slightly awkward moment of silence, before Grantaire’s eyes crinkle.

“Shut up,” he says. “You’re just jealous that I get to wear the crown first.”

“You have to admit I make that throne look fabulous,” says Courfeyrac. He cross the room to the dresser and starts pulling out drawers, frowning. “Did you not unpack?”

“You say that like I packed in the first place,” begins Grantaire, but Courfeyrac narrows his eyes at him.

“I will take you to a mall myself, I swear to god,” he says.

That is an image terrifying enough that Grantaire shuts up. “I was distracted,” he says. “I went to go bother Éponine.”

“Ah,” says Courfeyrac. “That does explain why she called me a while back laughing hysterically.”

“Éponine is a liar,” says Grantaire. He gets up to sort his own clothes, out, though. “You shouldn’t believe anything she says.”

“No,” says Courfeyrac. “So you don’t think the-guy-down-the-hall-Enjolras has fabulous and fuckable hair.”

Grantaire opens his mouth to respond, but there’s a muffled thump from outside their door, and then a knock.

Courfeyrac opens it.

“Hi,” says a voice, sounding far more gleeful than Grantaire had thought possible. “We just wanted to say welcome.”

“Because we have to,” puts in another voice. “I would like you all to know that I am completely opposed to this.”

Grantaire’s head snaps up and yes, yes, that is in fact guy-down-the-hall-Enjolras. He looks less than pleased to be there, but his companion has a grip on his right wrist.

“I’m Combeferre,” says Combeferre. “And this is Enjolras.”

Enjolras lets out a deep breath, and Grantaire looks down at what’s in his hands. What’s in his hands appears to be the absurd boxers Éponine bought him for his eighteenth birthday with French flags on them. Enjolras’ eyes very pointedly settle onto them, and Grantaire feels his stomach drop to his feet.

“Oh god,” he says, trying for under his breath but ending up somewhere around a high pitched squeal. It’s probably not the smartest thing he’s ever done, but he very artfully takes the boxers and flings them off to the side somewhere and turns back to the group smiling. “Hi,” he says. “I’m Grantaire.”

“Yes,” says Enjolras, slowly. “We know that -- your name is on your door.”

It says a lot that even _that_ is enough to make Grantaire’s skin flush; he hasn’t been affected by someone talking down to him in ages -- mostly because it’d become something of a default for the palace staff to talk down to him. Enjolras, though -- Enjolras is something else.

Enjolras is wincing, because Combeferre is now standing on his left foot.

“We’ll be your RAs,” Combeferre tells them, with a somewhat forced smile. “Feel free to come to us for any and all questions.”

“This is stupid,” Enjolras tries to say, as Combeferre proceeds to drag him down the hall by his wrist. “We’re supposed to be symbols of authority -- not their friends.”

“Who said anything about friendship,” retorts Combeferre. “Now walk --”

Grantaire watches the two of them go with bemusement, and takes advantage of the silence to let the air rush back into his lungs. He closes his eyes; Enjolras’ eyes, very blue and very opinionated, fill his head. He is so very screwed.

When he opens his eyes again, Courfeyrac is staring back at him with an odd expression on his face.

“What?” says Grantaire.

“I have a question,” says Courfeyrac, because he is a terrible person. Combeferre and Enjolras reappear in the doorway, Combeferre looking pleased, and Enjolras sighing under his arm.

“Yes?” Combeferre says.

 “What do you put in your hair?” continues Courfeyrac, blithely, smiling at Enjolras.

Grantaire seriously considers putting his head in his hands, but he resists, somehow, in time to catch sight of Éponine, accompanied by Cosette, on her way down the hall.

“I’m asking for a friend, of course,” continues Courfeyrac, blithely, like he’s not digging his own grave.

Grantaire starts figuring out how much he’ll have to sacrifice to get Feuilly to not hurt him if he kills Courfeyrac.

“I’m sure we can all see that I have fabulous hair. I do not need any tips.”

“Right,” says Éponine, reaching their door. “Keep digging your grave, Courfeyrac. If he kills you, I won’t save you.”

Courfeyrac pouts at her. “You’re a terrible friend, ‘Ponine,” he says. “Why must you wound me so?”

Éponine rolls her eyes, and steps around Combeferre and Enjolras into the room. “Excuse me.”

“You’re not --” Enjolras tries to say, before Combeferre stops him by putting a hand over his mouth.

Éponine and Cosette take advantage of his silence to file into the room, shoving Grantaire and Courfeyrac out of the way and descending upon their suitcases.

Combeferre shoots Courfeyrac a somewhat amused look, before saying, in something of a hush, “he won’t tell anyone how he gets his hair to stay like that. If you find out, you must tell me immediately.”

“Okay,” says Courfeyrac, brightly. “What’s your number, then? I’ll text you.”

Combeferre looks bemused, Éponine looks like Christmas has come early, and Enjolras looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here.

“Are you done?” he says, somewhat plaintively, when Combeferre has finished entering his information into Courfeyrac’s phone. “Am _I_ done? I have that Art class, tomorrow -- I need to get some sleep.”

“Sleep,” says Grantaire dubiously, before he can stop himself. “You need to get some sleep.”

Enjolras blinks, glances at the alarm clock Éponine has just finished plugging in. It lets them know that it’s not even six, yet. (Grantaire feels bad that he’s not hungry, but the jetlag had him eating hours ago in a diner with Feuilly sighing at him from behind a newspaper.)

“Um,” Enjolras says, coloring slightly. “I mean practice?”

“Practice,” repeats Grantaire, still at a loss. “You need to practice art?”

“You haven’t seen his art,” says Combeferre. “If you can call it art.”

Enjolras hits him. “Shut up,” he says. And then, under his breath, “authority figures.”

Grantaire grins, and abandons all pretense of helping Éponine and Cosette with his suitcase to put an arm over Enjolras’ shoulders. “That’s okay, Apollo,” he says. The nickname is sort of spur of the moment, but it works, because way his skin feels like it’s peeling off is wonderfully reminiscent of all of his sunburns. “I’m sure not even your artistic skills will be able to ruin the wonderful effect of that less than impressed expression.”

He considers pinching Enjolras’ cheeks, but the way Enjolras has gone slightly stiff under his arm warns him off of it.

“Apollo,” repeats Enjolras, sounding somewhat amused, but mostly at a loss.

“Apollo,” agrees Grantaire, smiling up at him. He’s taller than he’d expected, actually, and smells way too good to be legal.  “Don’t think I don’t see you, Éponine.”

Éponine raises both of her hand from where she’s been slipping condoms into Grantaire’s sock drawer.  “What?” she says. “I’m just looking out for you. You of all people know what happens if you knock someone up.”

Courfeyrac chokes on air, and Cosette steps forward to pat him awkwardly on the back.

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” says Grantaire, rolling his eyes at her. He releases Enjolras. “And I don’t want to know why you even have them on you.”

“What, condoms?” says Éponine. “I always have condoms on me. Honestly, R, people are going to think you’re a virgin.”

Grantaire just grins, and waits for her phone to start ringing.

When it does, Éponine scowls at it, and then him. “Oh, you bastard,” she says, and heads for the door. “I will murder you in your sleep.”

“Love you too, Éponine!” calls Grantaire after her, smiling at Cosette when she goes to follow. He turns to Courfeyrac. “You know, if you guys keep calling me bastard in public, someone is bound to get suspicious. And you know how I feel about blood tests, Courfeyrac.”

Courfeyrac punches him in the arm. “Baby,” he says.

“I love it when you call me that,” says Grantaire. “Gets me all tingly inside.” He flutters his lashes at Courfeyrac a bit, before turning his attention back to Enjolras, who is starting to look less flabbergasted and more amused.

“Um,” says Combeferre.

“If you have no more questions we have other residents to be greeting,” says Enjolras, with an odd, strangled edge to his voice, and this time when they leave, it’s with him dragging Combeferre.

“I like him,” says Courfeyrac, watching them go. “You’re allowed to marry him.”

Grantaire sputters at him, and holds up his phone when it rings, this time. “Hello?” he says. “Bahorel? Yes, the idiot is here, please do try to keep the blood out of the carpet, I like it.”

“You’ve never even looked at the carpet,” protests Courfeyrac, but he takes the phone anyway.

Grantaire retreats across the room to stare at nothing but the carpet, and not think about Enjolras.

\--

The night before classes, Grantaire has the worst night’s sleep possible. It’s almost funny, what with the clichés, but after the third time he wakes up to Courfeyrac’s terrible snoring, Grantaire comes to the conclusion that sleeping is not going to be happening. And it’s not like he can blame it on time differences -- it’s been three days. Three somewhat hellish days filled with people giving him funny looks while he tried to use a washing machine, but three days. Grantaire should be over the insomnia thing by now. Honestly.

He goes back to sleep.

The fourth time he wakes up, rolls over, and sees that not even twenty minutes have passed, he decides that obviously this isn’t working, so he gets up, snags some sweatpants, is sure to take the key this time, and heads out into the hall.

The halls are surprisingly quiet. Grantaire knows it’s because most of the study body has finally shown up and are attempting to normalize their sleep schedule. He feels a little awkward slinking down the hall with a sketchbook and iPod in hand, but he does it anyway. He’s not going to be there all that long -- just until his eyes start to feel heavy.

The fifth time he wakes up, it’s to a door opening very close to his feet. He blinks, heart thudding, and looks up to find Enjolras standing in the doorway of his room, frowning down at him.

“Are you sleeping in the hall?” he says.

Grantaire thinks about this. “No?”

Enjolras doesn’t look like he buys it. Enjolras also isn’t wearing a shirt, but Grantaire is doing his very best not to think about that. It’s three o’clock in the morning, his iPod tells him. There really are no reason to be wearing shirts at three o’clock in the morning.

“What the hell are you doing?” says Enjolras, somewhat sharply, and Grantaire looks up from where he’d been pulling his own shirt up.

Woops? Perhaps he’s sleepier than he’d first assumed?

“Nothing?” he tries. It takes a bit longer to get his hands to cooperate, but he eventually manages to uncurl them from the bottom hem of his shirt and make like he hadn’t been trying to take it off; from the less than comforted look on Enjolras face, he doesn’t succeed. “Anyway, what are you doing up, anyway?” Grantaire says, like his heart isn’t threatening to beat its way out of his chest.

“I had to use the bathroom,” says Enjolras.

Grantaire waits a moment. “Had to?” he says finally, tentative.

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Have to,” he corrects. “You’re worse than Combeferre.”

Grantaire grins up at him. “Someone has to keep you on your toes, Apollo,” he says. He almost considers Artemis, at this point, but even at three in the morning Enjolras practically glows. He also practically radiates annoyance.

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

Grantaire looks as innocent as possible. “I’m not quite sure what you mean,” he says, grin threatening to break free of the corners of his mouth. “Apollo.”

Enjolras heaves a long, drawn out sigh, and lets the door to his room fall shut. “Is there a reason you’re in the hall?” he says.

Grantaire blinks. “No?” he says, eventually.

“Right.” Enjolras makes an exhausted sounding noise -- and Grantaire really has to work on not reacting to the way his throat bobs when he does that -- before starting down the hallway. The move drags Grantaire’s attention to the fact that all Enjolras appears to be wearing are worn sweatpants that fall obscenely low on his hips. He’s wearing flip flops, hilariously enough, and despite the hang of the pants, Grantaire can just make out the backs of his heels.

“Well,” he says, and very abruptly lets his gaze drop down to the sketchbook in his lap. His iPod appears to have given up on music and his earbuds are a mess around his neck, but he can’t be bothered. Enjolras has his fingers itching to draw.

Of course, it’s slightly awkward several moments later, when Enjolras returns from the bathroom with hands smelling of soap and chooses not to go back into his room, but instead to sink to the ground next to Grantaire.

He slams the sketchbook open to a random drawing of the view out of his and Courfeyrac’s window, and manages a smile. “Um,” he says. “Hi?”

“You should go to bed,” says Enjolras, pleasantly, not looking away from Grantaire’s drawings. “You know.”

Grantaire sighs. “I was actually sleeping,” he points out. “It really shouldn’t matter where I do it.”

Enjolras blinks at him. “Your neck is going to hate you,” he says, but he sounds almost unsure this time. “If it doesn’t already.”

Grantaire had been doing a good job of ignoring the crick in his neck, but it comes to the forefront of his mind now. He sighs.

“I hadn’t noticed,” he says. “But thank you.”

Enjolras looks a little apologetic, but mostly amused. For a moment, Grantaire actually thinks he’s going to offer to massage the kinks out of his neck, and he has to focus very hard on breathing. But then Enjolras just smiles, which does nothing to help Grantaire in his quest to get air into his lungs, and leans back on his hands. “Sorry,” Enjolras says. “But you really should go to bed.”

“So should you,” points out Grantaire. “And I couldn’t sleep. I kept waking up.”

Enjolras blinks at him. “Do you want me to wear you out?”

Grantaire stares back at him, mouth falling open and heart thumping wildly in his chest for a few seconds, before Enjolras’ own eyes widen, and he goes faintly pink all the way to the tips of his ears. It’s worse, because the lack of shirt leaves nothing up to Grantaire’s imagination, and the flush is most definitely nearly full body.

“Oh god,” Enjolras says. “That came out wrong.”

Grantaire grins back at him; it’s more than a little forced.  “I’ll say,” he says, but he has to admit that a lot of the tension in his shoulders has eased considerably.

“I meant, if you want company I don’t have anything to be doing.”

“Except sleeping,” says Grantaire. “As you’ve been trying to convince me.”

Enjolras smiles. “Yes,” he says. “I even have an early class tomorrow. You’re a terrible influence.” He says that last bit with a just enough friendly annoyance that Grantaire finds himself suddenly struck somewhat speechless.

“Anyway,” says Enjolras. “As it is nearly four in the morning, I really should try to get _some_ sleep.” He gives Grantaire another look. “As should you.”

Grantaire manages a smile, and waves up at him. “Thank you, Mr Resident Assistant,” he says.

Enjolras smiles and the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Oh yeah,” he says, when he’s gotten the key into his door. “You’re really good.” He tips his head towards the sketchbook in Grantaire’s lap before tugging the door open and stepping back inside.

Grantaire waits until it closes with a click before letting his head thump back against the wall behind him. “Fuck,” he says. “I am so very fucked.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.zimriya.tumblr.com)!


	3. Plot Summary for the Rest of Fic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is discontinued. I'm so, so, so, sorry. This is how it would have ended.

3\. Beauty and the Beast - La Belle et la Bête

  * some parental integration



Grantaire supposes he’s lucky that his father waits an entire week to call him. Classes aren’t too bad, the language barrier is practically non-existent, and to be honest it’s actually nice to be surrounded by people who don’t know who he is. It’s still somewhat second-nature to go from peacefully resting in the warm place between sleep and wakefulness to feeling like Courfeyrac’s emptied an entire bucket of icewater over him instead of simply handing him the phone.

Although--

Grantaire almost misses his second day of classes because he sleeps through his alarm. Which, okay, to be fair it’s not really that he sleeps through is alarm. Rather, he forgets to set an alarm. Because he’s the bloody Hereditary Prince of Monaco; he has entire team of people whose job is to make sure he’s never late anyway!  So, one moment he’s sleeping--and dreaming, oddly enough, of his father calling him to tell him he’s changed his mind and Grantaire can now marry whatever lovely haired blond he’s met in the States (apparently Enjolras is now featuring in Grantaire’s dreams)--and the next he’s on the floor next to his bed in a puddle of icewater.

“Rise and shine, Princess,” says Courfeyrac, with far too much cheer. He places a tiara on Grantaire’s head--a plastic one, this time--and grins.

“I do not want to know how long you’ve been waiting to say that,” Grantaire grumbles. His voice is raspy from lack of sleep and his hair is soaking wet and dripping his eyes, but at least he won’t have to properly shower this morning. Not before--he checks the paper Courfeyrac thrusts at him--Calculus. Hang on. “Why the fuck am I taking Calculus?”

Courfeyrac shrugs. “Don’t look at me,” he says. “I’m not the one who signed you up for courses.”

Grantaire would hit him, but that would mean getting up.  “

  * R needs a Job
  * Courfeyrac meets Combeferre
  * Grantaire wants Enjolras
  * Grantaire pines for Enjolras
  * ART CLASS
  * r gets locked out of his room -- This is becoming a habit -- R says something terrible with regards to tabloids thus ruining the moment



4\. The Steadfast Tin Soldier

  * Enjolras is terrible at art
  * Grantaire is surprisingly not
  * this is revealed when he finds r vandalizing school grounds in the name of ~~love~~ art
  * he puts some sort of henry v quote about not wanting to be a king
  * UPON THE KING?
  * so friendship?
  * really tentative friendship? like introduce les amis de enjolras



5\. Snow White and the Seven Dwarves

  * so friendship is magic
  * family sucks
  * except when Enjolras takes Grantaire grocery shopping--but they run into Courfeyrac and Combeferre b/c same idea
  * E and R and C are awful shoppers and Combeferre hates his life
  * let’s throw a frat party into the mix
  * b/c courf and r and ep haven’t been and American parties!
  * Enjolras and Grantaire ditch--and end up hanging out in the library--BONDING.



6.

  * R gets a hard phonecall from his father--i.e., R breaks and calls his dad b/c holidays
  * his dad is less than impressed
  * someone overhears (Joly?)
  * Enjolras invites R home for the holidays--or rather, Enjolras invites Grantaire home for the holidays at Jehan’s
  * Courfeyrac and Eponine decide to stay on campus/use their money to rent a place somewhere b/c MATCHMAKING
  * the car ride from hell
  * i.e, grantaire and enjolras and Jehan in a car for a few hours driving to enjolras’ home
  * It’s almost awkward--but R covers saying Bahorel is his boyfriend
  * BAHOREL IS R’S BOYFRIEND?



7\. The Little Mermaid

  * HOLIDAYS WITH JEHAN’S FAMILY
  * Bahorel tags along
  * cue the most awkward dinner EVER
  * Enjolras is confused
  * Jehan is somewhat pissed
  * Bahorel keeps sending eponine texts all: from this point forward i wish to be referred as Princess Bahorel, Princely Consort of Monaco
  * someone does something with mistletoe
  * kissing



8\. The Boy who Cried Wolf

  * BACK TO SCHOOL
  * the drive is considerably nicer
  * Bahorel texts: update--enjolras is now the princely consort of monaco
  * Montparnasse has to be restrained from killing r
  * DATING SHENANIGANS
  * happy fluffy things like making out in coffee shops and doing homework alone in enjolras’ room
  * but WAIT
  * R is a prince
  * DUN DUN DUN



9\. The Frog Prince

  * R hates his life
  * Eponine hates her life
  * Courfeyrac hates his life
  * Everyone hates everyone’s life
  * Paparazzi
  * ppl have no clue what monarchy is in monaco
  * ppl don’t even know where monaco is
  * cue me showing off all the googling I did
  * R is all ‘but wait I must go home dad fainted’ or something
  * NO WAIT HIS SISTER IS GETTING MARRIED



10

  * motherly love
  * r is somewhat depressed
  * everyone worries about r being depressed
  * monaco is introducing new laws with regards to gay marriage
  * blah blah blah celebration
  * r does something stupid like take one of his grandfather’s cars out
  * he and ep nd courf end up on a beach staring at the sun setting over the ocean
  * and then his phone beeps: it’s enjolras
  * he forgets about it, though, b/c sister getting married



11

  * some freaking out
  * so texting
  * some feelings
  * more freaking out
  * more texting
  * WEDDING SHIT
  * FITTINGS FOR SUITS
  * COURFEYRAC SENDING ENJOLRAS PICTURES OF R IN A SUIT B/C R IN A SUIT
  * PINING



12

  * grantaire’s sister’s hen party
  * or w/e that’s called in america i am a terrible excuse for one i'm sorry
  * idek man
  * shots
  * fun all around
  * a parade
  * enjolras shows up



13\. Cinderella

  * i hadn’t actually planned this
  * but basically they make up
  * they put grantaire’s sister and her new husband to shame
  * a thing she will never let him live down
  * perhaps they melt the cockles of r’s father’s heart
  * either way happy ever after



14\. Sleeping Beauty maybe?

  * enjolras love r
  * r loves enjolras
  * but enjolras wants to be doctor
  * some minor details figured out here
  * honeymoon jokes
  * wedding jokes
  * happily ever after for real this time



 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post with more information located [here](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/post/71340167638/the-end-of-the-era-my-les-mis-fic).
> 
> I want to reiterate a huge thank you to everyone who took the time to read and comment and leave a kudos on this story. You are all amazing people and I cannot tell you how much it has meant to me. Thank you.
> 
> All my love,  
> Nat.


End file.
